


This is Where I'll Stay

by 221brosiewilde



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221brosiewilde/pseuds/221brosiewilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is life, Horatio thinks, tracing the knobs of bone along Hamlet’s spine. This is life and everything that it should be. </p>
<p>Horatio and Hamlet at Wittenberg, just before the events of the play take place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Where I'll Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time delving into any kind of Shakespeare fic, and it certainly won't be my last since this was a lot of fun to write (even though the subject matter is quite bleak). This is quite a bit shorter than I meant it to be but I already have a follow up planned so be on the look out for that!  
> Enjoy!

“There is nothing I love so much as this,” Hamlet whispers, in a rare display of affectionate honesty. Horatio smiles, watches as Hamlet puts his hands behind his head and gazes up at the stars. The snow is falling, coating them in a white dusting worthy of the books at the far end of the library. Instinct and common sense (always at war with each other in Horatio’s mind, especially when Hamlet is involved) tell him to move, or else they’ll catch a cold - there’s a slew of nasty illness the German winter brings with her, and Horatio certainly isn’t willing to know it intimately - but he ignore them for now.

He leans in, rests his head in the crook of Hamlet’s arm pit, where it’s warmest, and brings his lips to Hamlet’s ear.

“There is nothing I love so much as you,” he whispers, matching Hamlet’s tone.

Hamlet’s lips, chapped, curve into a skin splitting smile.

___

This is life, Horatio thinks, tracing the knobs of bone along Hamlet’s spine. This is life and everything that it should be. There are books piled in the corner, a fire roaring in the grate (its warmth licks their bare skin like a mother cat’s tongue - a little too harsh, but welcome and certainly necessary), and clothes strewn over the floor. Knowledge, both carnal and intellectual, seem to come alive in Hamlet’s bedroom. It prowls the edges of the walls, playing with the shadows and looking at them fondly.

There’s so much to learn here, Horatio thinks, sighing as Hamlet turns on his side. He runs his finger over the ridges in Hamlet’s ribs next and wonders how someone who mostly resembles a feral cat can be so arresting, even in sleep. What lies beyond the manic glint in Hamlet’s eyes, the dramatic turn of his mouth? How does he find his way there, and once there, how can he be sure that he’ll be able to return? He’s not even sure it’s somewhere he wants to go.

So many questions left unanswered, so many things they can explore together.

Hamlet makes a quiet sound and his eyes open, falling immediately on Horatio.

“Still up?” he asks. His voice is raspy with sleep. It’s startling considering Hamlet is usually so clear. He always sounds exactly the way he wants to sound. Hearing him like this makes him seem vulnerable, makes the moment more intimate. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Horatio shrugs. “I’m not tired,” he says. “And you’re interesting when you sleep.”

“Am I?” Hamlet smirks.

“Yes.” Horatio pokes him in the side, pleased to see goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch. “It’s rare that you’re so quiet.”

_And so unguarded_ , a part of him whispers, but he places that thought aside for now.

Hamlet stretches, unselfconscious in his nudity. He’s ridiculously thin, which had surprised Horatio the first time he’d seen him without clothes. Princes are usually overfed little brats, in his experience. But Hamlet’s physique doesn’t speak of royalty, despite how fine his clothes are. Someone with his body is more likely to be found in a library, writing furiously, tossing aside all thoughts of hunger. Hamlet’s body is uniquely Hamlet.

“I thought you liked it when I spoke, and that’s why you were always hanging around me,” Hamlet says, pulling Horatio out of his thoughts. He sends him a sly look. “Unless of course you were lying.”

“I’d never lie to you,” Horatio says, with more feeling than he expected. Hamlet blinks, surprised.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You mean that?” Hamlet asks, like he’s waiting for a punchline. It’s not obvious, but it’s there, behind the easy confidence he usually exudes; as if he’s secretly always waiting for someone to outsmart him.

Horatio can’t decide if it’s because he wants to be outsmarted, or if all of his self assuredness is just a front. The confident Hamlet could simply be an act, a role he’s made for himself the same way he writes roles for other people. It would be so easy for him to play the actor. Theatre and reality coming together to form one over the top personality.

It seems fitting.

But Horatio is imprisoned by honesty. He always has been.  

“Yes,” he says. He leans in and places a kiss on Hamlet’s nose. “I’ll always tell you the truth.”

Hamlet sighs happily. He moves his face up until their lips meet, soft and sweet against each other. It will always be like this, Horatio thinks, as long as they’re together nothing can touch them.

___

Hamlet receives the letter telling of his father’s death, and suddenly, the heavy shield of happiness and learning comes crashing down over their heads. Horatio watches as the light slowly fades from Hamlet’s eyes. His mask slips until it’s all but vanished.

The fire in the grate goes out. Their clothes must be picked up from the floor and kept on their bodies, lest one of the servants charged with bringing Hamlet’s belongings to Elsinore get the wrong idea. The books are packed away and put into neat piles. The charm from the room evaporates like smoke as, one by one, Hamlet’s things are taken away.

He doesn’t cry, which is perhaps the most surprising thing about the whole situation. Horatio’s always known Hamlet to be the most emotional of anyone he’s ever met and yet he doesn’t shed a tear. At least not that Horatio sees. And Horatio _does_ see.

The square is empty. Hamlet perches on the edge of the fountain, legs drawn up and head resting on his knees. The pose is strikingly reminiscent of one of the fallen angels Horatio has seen in their books, the kind that are cast down from heaven and entirely too resentful of it to have ever really been good. It’s not the kind of expression he’d expect from someone who’s just lost their father, but it’s...apt. Leave it to Hamlet to rage against mortality.

He sits next to Hamlet, ignoring the wetness that seeps into the seat of his pants.

“I’ll be at the funeral,” he says. “And I’ll stay at Elsinore after, if you’ll have me.”

“For how long?” Hamlet asks, as if any answer he receives will only disappoint.

Horatio leans against his shoulder, not sure if he’s looking for warmth or trying to give it. Either way, it’s meant to be kind.

“As long as you’ll have me.” He looks at Hamlet. He tries not to focus on the bags under his eyes, the greasy, unkempt nature of his hair. It’ll pass eventually, this grief. Hamlet has every right to be sad. But it still pains him to see his friend (lover?) like this.

“And after?” Hamlet asks, looking up from his knees. He focuses on Horatio, mouth a flat, hard line.

Horatio’s brows knit. “After you won’t have me anymore, or after the funeral?”

Hamlet’s eyes study Horatio’s face, as if he’s looking for an answer to a question that hasn’t been asked. “Either,” he says finally.

Horatio shrugs. He’s used to Hamlet being cryptic but there’s something angry about him that wasn’t there before. He’s never thought of him as the type of person to throw people away as soon as he’s finished with them. What’s more, he’s never thought about even the possibility of finishing anything with Hamlet. If Horatio had his way they wouldn’t even be going to Denmark. They’d stay here and forget the outside world even existed; leave the new king and queen to do whatever they wanted and protect Hamlet from a situation he clearly doesn’t want to be a part of.

The idea of Hamlet doing what he wants - including throwing Horatio away - hurts.

“I’m at your disposal, my lord,” he says. “I’m wherever you need me to be.”

It’s more an an attempt to tell Hamlet what he wants to hear than a real answer, but it seems to satisfy him. For now.

Hamlet nods. He rests his head on Horatio’s shoulder and points at the dirt road leading to the square.

“I can see the carriage in the distance,” he says. “It’s just there, a little spot on the horizon. Do you see it?”

Horatio squints. He searches for a moment, then, finally, notices the small figure of a horse and carriage moving at a rapid pace along the path.

“It’s black,” he says. And he’s not sure why he’s surprised. It’s appropriate for the occasion.

Hamlet nods. “Much like my mood as of late.” His fingers tighten on Horatio’s arm, and suddenly Horatio doesn’t want to let him go. He wants to hide Hamlet, tell them that he’s run away, just so he can stay here, away from the scandals of royal life.

“I’ll wait with you,” Horatio says. He’s gratified when Hamlet’s fingers relax slightly. “And then I’ll be with you again, as soon as possible.”

Hamlet turns his head on Horatio’s arm, looking up at him from beneath his lashes. It makes his already large eyes look even wider, maximizing his innocence, the vulnerability he never seems to want to exude.

“My sweet friend,” he says. He places his hand on Horatio’s cheek and kisses him with cold lips and slightly stale breath. “Thank you.”

 


End file.
